


The Care and Naming of Hawkes

by MaverikLoki, Saiya_tina, Ywain Penbrydd (penbrydd)



Series: A Comedy of Assholes (Rhapsody, etc.) [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angry!Leandra giving birth, Don't pick up the baby unless you want to get whizzed on, Gen, Malcolm Hawke's A+ Parenting, Name Changes, Names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-04-25 04:37:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4946971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaverikLoki/pseuds/MaverikLoki, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saiya_tina/pseuds/Saiya_tina, https://archiveofourown.org/users/penbrydd/pseuds/Ywain%20Penbrydd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Among the common people of Ferelden, accidents, disease, and malnutrition frequently end the lives of young children. The tradition, therefore, became to name a healthy child in their second or third year. Malcolm Hawke's second child is due within days, by the time he takes his first to the Chantry, to be named. The tradition continues, and the second takes the nameless place of the first, until it is his turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cormac

The baby was about two, when his father took him to the Highever Chantry to be named -- a big ceremony with ten other kids, about the same age. Most of them came with both their parents, but the baby had only his father, because mummy had to stay at home with the pink-faced lady from over the road. It was because of her belly, the baby knew. Mummy's belly kept getting bigger, and there was going to be another baby, and that was why he had to have a name before it happened.

The big lady with the funny hat asked his father's name, and got an answer the baby wasn't expecting. "Malkhazi Kestrel."

"And this child? Who will this child become?" she asked, taking the baby off his father's hip.

"My son will be called Cormac, for the hero who fought off the Chasind," his father said, and the woman with the funny hat held the baby up in the column of light that angled through the back window of the Chantry.

"Let this child be named in the eyes of the Maker, and may the Maker's light be upon him for all time," the lady with the hat intoned, and the baby could hear the scratch of quill and parchment from somewhere to the side. The shift in position made him feel funny, and he squirmed, but the lady kept talking. He didn't like not being on the ground, but at least he didn't feel the twisting in his stomach when his father held him. "From a child of the Maker comes another child. Let this one be known as Cormac, son of Malkhazi Kestrel."

The baby, quite done with being held in the air, proceeded to squirm more, peeing down his legs and the white gown he wore. Finally, the lady with the funny hat handed him back to his father, who seemed to be struggling not to smile. The lady with the funny hat looked like this might not have been the first time this had happened.  


* * *

Malcolm carried his dripping son home, tucked under one arm like a sack of potatoes. The baby -- no, _Cormac_ , now -- knew perfectly well how to hold his water, Malcolm knew. For the love of Andraste, the boy was already learning to _read_. But maybe the ceremony had been a little much. All the incense and being swung about in dusty sunlight. Still, once they were outside, he let himself laugh. It seemed the boy had an opinion about the Chantry already, and not one Malcolm could find it in himself to disagree with.

He opened the door onto the sound of Leandra roaring at the midwife. "I don't want to drink the stupid tea! I want my stupid husband here so I can kick him in the jollies! This is _his_ fault!"

"I'm afraid kicking me in the jollies is going to have to wait, my stolen princess." Malcolm called from the front of the house, as he made his way back, to find clean clothes for Cormac.

"What stupid name did you give our child?" Leandra demanded. "I'm sure you named him something barbaric. Something no self-respecting noble family would--" She growled and heaved the teacup she held at the wall, but the midwife deflected it, and after a bit of swatting and failing to catch it, landed it on the floor unbroken.

"Of course I named him something barbaric. It's a good Fereldan name. The name of a barbarian hero, even." Malcolm handed the boy a fresh robe, as he spoke. "I had him recorded as Cormac."

"At least it's not _Orlesian_ ," Leandra grumbled, as the midwife went to make more tea.

"Why would I pick something Orlesian? You and your father have Antivan names. You call me by a Fereldan name. It seemed like a good idea to give our son a good Fereldan name, since we're _living in Ferelden_."

"This had better be a daughter, Malcolm!" Leandra shouted. "This had better be a daughter or I'll twist your knob off, and you can bear the next one!"

The midwife was frozen in the doorway with a fresh cup of tea, when Malcolm stepped out of the other room, his son back on his hip. "She was like this for the first one, too," he told the horrified-looking woman. "But, she decided to keep trying for a girl."

"You're a brave man, serah," said the midwife, shaking her head.

"Not as brave as she is," Malcolm said with a smile. "I'm going to take the boy outside, before this gets any louder. We'll be right out back. Just shout down if you need anything."

"Malcolm Hawke, don't you dare walk out that door!" Leandra shouted, and Malcolm handed Cormac to the midwife, taking the cup of tea from her.

"Would you take him down to the garden? It seems I need to go get kicked in the jollies." He smiled warmly at the midwife. "You might want to let him walk on his own. He's got a certain displeasure at being held up too long. I'll come right down and get you as soon as she's settled."

"Are you sure--"

"Absolutely. Last time, we didn't even have a midwife, and your assistance is much improving the situation, but this is the part where I need to have a chat with my wife that Cormac doesn't need to see." Actually, he didn't want the midwife to see it, or they'd be on the run again, before morning.

With an uncertain nod, the midwife took Cormac out to play, and in minutes, the outraged shouting from upstairs had stopped. Malcolm appeared at the top of the stairs and made his way down. "Come down, if she starts screaming, again," he said. "There's a thing -- she'll never let you do it -- but there's a thing that helps. Besides kicking me soundly in the jollies, which I expect I do deserve. I went along with this plan."  


* * *

Later that night, Cormac was still awake, squinting at the pictures in one of his father's books. It was the big one about the magic lady hero who fought off the bad magic guys from the north. He couldn't read all the words, but he knew a lot of them, and the pictures helped him figure out where he was in the story -- he knew how the story went. _Andraste_ , he knew, putting his finger on the word. That was her name. And now he had a name, too. His father said he had the name of a different hero, and he wondered how to spell it and if that was a story he could read, too.

His father appeared in the doorway, shadow falling across the wall, holding something wrapped up in a shirt, but he couldn't make out what it was. "You reading the story of Andraste, again?" he asked quietly.

Cormac nodded. "Why doesn't she know the guy is bad?" he asked. "Why does she go with him?"

"People aren't always bad," Malcolm said, kneeling on the floor on the other side of the book. "Sometimes, they start out good, and they get bad later, but you already like them too much to notice."

"So, he turned bad, later?" Cormac asked, still trying to figure out the bundle his father held.

"Maferath thought he was doing a good thing for his people. He didn't know he turned bad, either, and that's why nobody noticed," Malcolm explained, leaning forward to put the bundle in Cormac's lap. "But, enough about Andraste and Maferath. This is your brother. He doesn't have a name, yet."

"Is he the baby, now?" Cormac asked.

"You have a name, so he's the baby now." Malcolm smiled at his sons. "He's a very special nameday gift from your mum and me, so you have to take very good care of him and help him grow up to be big and strong like you."

Cormac's face lit up and he squeezed the baby to his chest. "Mine?"

The baby squeaked curiously at him, nose wrinkling.

"You have to be gentle with him! Don't squeeze like that." Malcolm adjusted Cormac's grip a few times, until it seemed about right. "Hold him like this. I'll teach you how to take care of him, just like I used to take care of you. We'll do it together."

"Mine." This time, Cormac sounded reverent as the baby made some quiet burbling sounds and dozed off again.

"Come on," Malcolm said. "It's time for all of us to get some sleep. Your mum's sleeping on the bed by herself, tonight, so we're going to sleep on the floor next to her. I'll carry the baby. He's heavy."

Cormac was going to protest, but he realised his father was right -- he couldn't get up with the baby in his lap -- and let him take the baby. He usually slept wedged between his parents, but things had changed now. He had a name. He had a baby brother. The baby should get the middle, he decided, curling up on the blanket on the floor, because he was big and strong, now, and the baby needed to be safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Cormac could read and mostly understand kids' books (and books intended for a semi-literate peasant population) by the time he was two. Yes, that's unusual. No, it's not impossible.
> 
> He also has a holy goddamn terror of being picked up by pretty much anyone except his dad, which Rhapsody readers know persists well into adulthood. ~~FUCK! ANDERS! PUT ME DOWN!~~
> 
> The next (and possibly final) chapter will be Artemis's naming, assuming I get off my lazy and actually write it. I don't like kid!fics; I don't read kid!fics; I probably shouldn't be allowed to write them.


	2. Artemis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artemis wasn't always the cleanest of the Hawkes.

Cormac's nameday was coming up soon, and that meant the baby was nearly two. It would be time for him to have a name, soon, too, and then Cormac would have a _real_ brother. A brother with a name. He thought about that, wondering what name his parents would give the baby, as he paged through one of his father's books. The words in this one didn't make any sense, but it had pictures of mages and dragons.

His father came in, carrying the baby on one hip, with a basket full of things from the market hooked over his other arm. "Hey, Cormac." His father crouched down, setting down the basket and letting the baby stagger over to Cormac to grab his nose with a spit-soaked hand. "Your nameday's coming up soon. What do you want?"

Cormac's face scrunched up as he wiped his nose and then the baby's fingers with his sleeve. "What do I want? I can pick?" He paused and squeezed the baby's hand. "You can pick your friends, and you can pick your nose, but you can't pick your _brother's_ nose!"

The cackling started almost immediately and the baby joined in. "Your brother's nose!" he agreed.

Malcolm sighed. They were at that age, where the slightest thing would set them both off.

"You can't pick your brother's nose!" Cormac sang out, again. "So don't put your fingers in my nooose!"

Malcolm couldn't help himself, and he laughed along with them, for a bit. "Okay, but come on, Cormac. What do you want for your nameday? Anything special or should we do the same as last year?"

Cormac slowly stopped laughing. He put on his thinking face and closed the book, staring into the corner of the room. Suddenly his eyes lit up. "I know! I want to give the baby a name! Right on the same day as mine!"

"Well, you know it's the Revered Mother's job to actually give him the name..." Malcolm sat back on his heels and reached into the basket, coming up with two small bunches of grapes, one for each of his sons.

"But, I could pick it, right?" Cormac insisted, stuffing three grapes in his mouth at once. "I know the best name! It's from a story in one of your books!"

Malcolm wasn't sure that was a good idea at all -- he had all kinds of books, including books with names that would get them in trouble just for knowing. "Well, why don't you show me which one, and then we'll ask your mum?"

Stuffing another grape in his mouth, Cormac scrambled to his feet, handing the rest of the bunch to the baby. "You should eat those so you get big and strong like me," he said, running off to pull another book down from his father's shelves.

The baby looked confusedly at the grapes in both hands, wondering how he was supposed to eat them if he didn't have any hands free, before finally deciding he could just chew them off the stems. Malcolm looked on in amusement, watching him come to this decision on his own, before the sound of falling books drew his attention to the other room.

"Cormac?" Malcolm's voice had a warning tone, as he leaned to the side to look into the other room.

"It's okay! I got it!" Cormac ran back into the room, carrying a book the size of his chest, and dropped it on the floor. He still opened it very gently, like his father had taught him.

_So close, and yet so far,_ Malcolm thought, watching his oldest son manhandle a translation of a Tevinter book of infamous magisters. They'd read that one together, with Malcolm leaving out most of the really inappropriate stories, and helping Cormac through the more difficult words. Still, a _Tevinter_ name... He wondered who Cormac had been so impressed with.

"This one, daddy!" Cormac announced, suddenly, pointing to a picture of a magister marrying her slave and holding up a shield glyph against her detractors.

"That's an elf name," Malcolm said, carefully.

"No, not the elf! Goofy daddy." Cormac laughed. "The mage lady."

"The mage lady is a lady," Malcolm pointed out, not sure it really mattered, in Ferelden. Tevinter names were so uncommon, no one would ever notice.

"No, the mage lady is a _hero_! _My_ brother should have a hero name!" Cormac insisted, jabbing his finger at the book.

"Hero lady," the baby said, around a mouthful of grapes, gesturing at the book with a fistful of grapes.

"I have a hero name!" Cormac reminded his father. "He should have one too!"

"There are lots of hero men, too," Malcolm pointed out, in a last-ditch effort to keep Cormac from proposing this to Leandra. Honestly, he could almost convince himself to just go with it. They could call the kid 'Art' and no one would even notice. But, Leandra was going to take some convincing, if Cormac couldn't be swayed. And the last thing Malcolm wanted to say was 'no' to his first son's nameday wish. It wasn't even a particularly bad name, really. Had a nice sound to it.

"But, I like this hero best! Maferath was good and he turned bad, but Ar--" Cormac stumbled over the name. "Ar-te-mice? She was good even when everyone else was bad. She didn't let anything stop her doing a good thing. Like Andraste, but with a nicer name. And she didn't marry a bad man. She married a good man, and she let him do what was right, even when she didn't have to. Even when she wasn't supposed to."

And Malcolm really couldn't argue that insight. 'Good when everyone else was bad'. He could think of worse things to want for his son. "Artemis," he corrected. "And it is a nice name, and a good thing to want your brother to be able to do."

* * *

"It's almost time to name the baby," Malcolm pointed out to his wife, that night, as she put out the candle beside the bed.

"Have we got to?" Leandra groaned, pulling the blanket over her head. "If we just called him 'Petit', do you think anyone would notice?"

"Have we got to? Listen to you! You almost sound Fereldan!" Malcolm laughed as loudly as he dared with the boys asleep in the next room. "And we can't call him 'Petit'. It's Orlesian, and everyone here knows Orlesian when they hear it. If it wouldn't pass in Kirkwall, it won't pass here."

"Well, you pick something, then!" Leandra huffed and peered over the top of the blanket at her husband. "I've thirty wonderful names for daughters, but you keep giving me sons! Is this some kind of magic? ... Malcolm, is this your fault?" She pinched him.

Malcolm laughed, leaning in to kiss her, but Leandra pulled the blanket back up over her eyes.  
"Oh yes, that's a spell all mages learn, somewhere between learning to freeze water and making it rain fire. Don't worry, Leandra. I promise the next one will be a girl!"

"It had better be, or you can carry him to term." The blanket muffled her voice, but she let Malcolm tug it down away from her face.

"As for the baby -- _this_ baby," Malcolm said, "Cormac, it turns out, already has a name picked out. Wants to name the baby for his Nameday present this year, he says, which makes shopping for him quite a bit simpler."

Even in the dark, Malcolm could make out the look Leandra gave him at that, and he wondered if, maybe, he should have left the blanket over her face.

"I can't call him Petit, but you're letting our four-year-old name him? And you thought this was a good idea?"

"Well, the four-year-old didn't decide to name him the Orlesian word for 'small'," Malcolm shot back, sticking out his tongue. "Actually, he picked out a perfectly nice name. I like the sound of it!" He decided to pretend he had no idea where the name had come from. Probably safer. "Artemis. Tell me that's not a grand name for a nobleman. That would pass in the Marches, don't you think?"

"My father had a nice Antivan name," Leandra said, after a pause. "But, we can't name him that, or they'll find us, won't they?"

"Probably. It's not every 'Leandra' who has a father named 'Aristide'. And it's common to name a son for a father. I'll not name him for my father, either. It's a connection that doesn't need to be made. I'd rather keep my family out of this." Malcolm shrugged, shoulders digging into the pillow.

"You never talk about your parents! I was starting to think you were an orphan!" Leandra chuckled and eyed Malcolm over the top of the blanket again.

"They were wonderful people, and when I left them, they were still alive, and I'd like them to stay that way. Me? Well, you know what I am, and I don't ... I don't want to bring that down on my parents." Malcolm shifted uncomfortably. "They don't know what's become of me. I'd rather not surprise them with templars."

Leandra's hand sought his in the dark. He knew the shape of it by heart, down to the calluses on her palms, calluses that hadn't been there when he'd met her. "Our boys," she said, voice heavy with a concern they both had. "What if one of them...?"

"Takes after me in more than my dashing good looks?" Malcolm smiled, never stopped smiling, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "We'll make do. Chances are, they'll be perfectly normal and grow up to be farmers or merchants or something."

"Or troublemakers," Leandra teased, her thumb tracing the back of his hand.

"Well, that's a given." This time, when Malcolm leaned in for a kiss, Leandra let him.

"Artemis Hawke," Leandra murmured, eyes closing as she settled in for sleep. "I suppose it's not a bad name."

"At least it's not Orlesian."

Leandra kicked him under the covers, but Malcolm read that as her tacit approval.

* * *

Leandra was not so pregnant, this time, that she couldn't join her husband for the naming of their second son. 'Artemis'. The more she thought of it, the less strange it became. Perhaps letting the four-year-old name the baby hadn't been such a bad idea. Cormac looked so excited by the Chantry and the event, watching the few families ahead of them take their blessings and go. Highever was big enough that there were always a couple of names in any week, and most of them were on Makersday, for obvious reasons, but Cormac's had been mid-week because they couldn't have two unnamed children in the house. And here she was waiting for the third -- a girl, this time, she was sure.

"Look, baby! That lady's going to give you a name!" Cormac pointed to the Revered Mother at the front of the Chantry, standing in the light from the big windows with the pictures of the disciples. "I picked it out and everything, and she just has to make it stick on you. And then we can go home and have fruit tarts, because it's our nameday. We can have the same one, because we're really great!"

The baby looked around with wide eyes, barely daring to blink, too distracted by the colours, sounds, and people to pay much attention to Cormac's words. Malcolm held the baby's hand tight in his while the baby had the fingers of his free hand shoved into his own mouth. The family in front of them moved aside, and then they were faced with the Revered Mother and her towering hat. The baby stared at that hat, and Malcolm coaxed him forward.

The Revered Mother had a face that was warm but tired, deep wrinkles shifting with her smile. "Your names?" she asked Malcolm and Leandra without preamble.

Leandra answered for them both. "Lee and Malkhazi Kestrel."

"And what shall his name be?" the Mother asked, bending to pick up the baby. He clung to his father, but Malcolm pried the baby's fingers from his clothes.

"Arty-mice!" Cormac announced from the floor, where he was picking at a loose thread on his father's boot.

Malcolm choked back a laugh. "Artemis. He means 'Artemis'."

The Revered Mother gave him an odd look, but said nothing.

"It's a family name," Malcolm explained, after an awkward pause.

"It's a hero name!" Cormac shouted, still picking at the thread.

Leandra looked at her husband and then her son, in confusion, and then shrugged at the Revered Mother. "I reserve the naming of our daughters for myself, but he names our sons."

"Artemis..." The Revered Mother nodded, turning to hold the baby in the light pouring down from the highest round window above Andraste's head. "Let this child be named in the eyes of the Maker, and may the Maker's light be upon him for all time," she intoned. "From a child of the Maker comes another child. Let this one be known as Artemis, son of Lee and Malkhazi Kestrel."

The last few syllables came out muffled as Artemis reached for her face, fascinated by the play of light over her wrinkled skin. She turned her head to avoid getting sticky fingers in her mouth but turned the wrong way, getting two of them up her nose instead.

Artemis giggled as the Mother squeaked, and Malcolm snatched up his son before he could get any more adventurous.

"Sorry about that!" he said as she rubbed her nose on her sleeve, face twisting. "He's a bit, uh... curious." Much like his brother, Malcolm supposed. At least he hadn't _peed_ on the Revered Mother, Maker be praised.

"I wish I could say that was the first time," the Mother sighed.

Artemis beamed down at his brother from under Malcolm's arm, singing to himself about picking noses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next Rhapsody Fan Chat is on Saturday, 22 October @ 13:00-17:00 EDT. ([What time is that?](https://www.timeanddate.com/worldclock/fixedtime.html?msg=Rhapsody+Fan+Chat+%28October+2016%29&iso=20161022T13&p1=179&ah=4)) Watch [Pen's Tumblr](https://penbrydd.tumblr.com/) for the link to join us, when the time comes.


	3. Anton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the day of his third son's nameday, Malcolm can't find the baby. This is only the first of many such incidents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is all Penbrydd's fault. Every bit of it. Because I wasn't going to do and I was tempted into it.

“Leandra, have you seen the baby?” Malcolm called, frowning as he looked around the bedroom. The baby wasn’t in the middle of the blankets like he’d left him a few minutes ago to change into something decent for his son’s nameday.

“I thought you had him,” Leandra said, popping her head inside the room. She frowned, “Malcolm, if you tell me you lost my son…”

“I didn’t lose him!” Malcolm said hastily, waving his hands like it would ward off her angry gaze. “I’m sure Cormac or Artie picked him up!”

“I heard the boys outside, make sure they haven’t dropped their little brother into a puddle or tried to sell him to the tavern wenches again.” Leandra grimaced at the memory of that particular incident. The women still came by to coo at the baby when they could.

Malcolm winced at that memory too. The rumors that had been spread as a result of the prostitutes dropping by their house so often had taken months to dispel and he still heard whispers of it. No one believed they were just coming by to take a look at a baby.

He walked outside and scanned the farmland for Cormac and Artemis. It was easier said than done, considering they could have easily run off somewhere else and this little village was never short of places to lose a child in. He spotted Cormac and walked over to where the boy was talking to Artemis under the oak tree.

“Cormac, have you seen the baby?” Malcolm asked. Cormac and Artemis exchanged glances and then shook their heads. “Are you sure?”

“Sure,” Cormac said, nodding. “Didn’t take the baby, he’s too little to do anything.”

“And he makes a mess,” Artemis put in.

“He’s a baby, that’s what babies do,” Malcolm said. He rubbed his chin, frowning, “He couldn’t have gotten far, he can barely walk…”

“He likes the other room,” Cormac said, “maybe he’s there?”

“I checked, nothing,” Malcolm said. Now he was beginning to worry. If the baby got out of the house by any means… Maker, Leandra was going to castrate him.

“Did you check the pantry? Mother keeps all sorts of things in there,” Artemis said.

“I doubt your mother put the baby in the pantry.”

“Did you check?”

“…No.”

“Then check!” Cormac finished.

“You’re going to be a charmer when you grow up, I can tell,” Malcolm muttered. “Thanks, boys.”

He headed back into the house and, for lack of any better ideas, opened the pantry. It was pointless, he knew, the baby had just learned to walk, there was no way he could get to the pantry, open it and get into any of the shelves.

Except that’s exactly what the baby had managed to do.

Malcolm stared at the baby sitting on the topmost shelf, hair brushing the ceiling as he played with a wheel of cheese. He looked down at the shelves, looking for any hint as to how a baby had managed to climb six feet of shelves in less than fifteen minutes.

The baby’s squeal of “Dad!” reminded him that there was a reason he had been looking for the child and he scooped his son up, ignoring his pouting as he parted him from his new cheesey toy and wondered if he had enough time to make it to the Chantry.

The bell of the Chantry rang loudly, signaling the end of the day’s service and Malcolm sighed loudly, ignoring the baby pulling at his hair to be let down. No matter, there was always tomorrow. And this time, he’d lock the pantry door.

The next day, the baby was missing again.

“I swear I just put him on the table for a moment!” Leandra cried, wringing her hands as Malcolm checked the pantry again.

“I’ve been there, don’t worry. I still don’t know how he got out of the blankets, let alone off the table. Our son apparently likes to make his parents shit themselves,” he muttered. Leandra growled something about swearing in front of the children, but he could tell her heart wasn’t in it. “He has tiny legs, how far could he have gotten?”

“Dad, the baby’s in the street,” Cormac called from the front of the shack. Malcolm’s heart jumped into his throat and he ran out like his arse was on fire (that had happened once, he didn’t recommend it). Sure enough, the baby was sitting in the middle of the road and playing, to Malcolm’s great horror, with one of Leandra’s kitchen knives.

“Oh great, now he’s armed,” Malcolm muttered, approaching the baby cautiously. He didn’t want a knife to the eye or, more likely, to the scrotum. “Son? Please give daddy the knife.”

The baby smiled at Malcolm and waved the knife, babbling happily. Malcolm picked out the words “Daddy” and “look” from the stream of nonsensical words. “Yes, daddy sees the knife. It’s a pretty knife, but it’s for grown ups. Please give daddy the knife?”

“Pretty,” the baby cooed, stabbing the knife into the dirt again. Malcolm winced. If the baby had a scratch on him, Leandra would use that knife to hand him his balls. He got closer to the boy as he continued to stab the dirt with a sort of single-minded viciousness that had Malcolm more than a little concerned about his child’s mental state.

In fact that was beginning to remind him of an old mage friend who tended to smack them around when they pissed him off. Which was often. He crept a little closer and froze as the baby pulled the knife out of the dirt and pointed it at him. While he knew it was most likely a harmless gesture, his hands came out automatically in a gesture of surrender. He cringed as he saw some of the neighbors peering out curiously, no doubt amused by the sight of a Riviani mercenary being held at knife point by his two year old son. He hoped the word didn’t spread. He could imagine his job opportunities drying up with each passing second.

“Having trouble with your fearsome foe?” one of the women from the taverns called, grinning. “Have you met your match?”

He ignored her, but the baby was distracted enough for Malcolm to grab for the knife. He winced as the boy tried to pull it back and it cut slightly into his palm but he managed to get it away. Just when he thought the worst was over, the baby started crying. Loudly.

“Is that the baby?” Leandra’s panicked voice came from outside and he hurriedly shoved the knife into his belt and picked the baby up, bouncing him as he turned back to the house. He stopped dead when he met the sight of his wife standing there, wide eyes fixed on the knife at his belt and the bawling child.

“Uh…” he held the baby out, “it’s his fault?”

For not the first time, Malcolm was sure his children would be the death of him.

The third day, he had learned from his experiences. He kept the baby in eye sight or within arm’s reach the entire time, switching with Leandra when required. The boy seemed to be better behaved today, content to sit and play with his toys or his brothers. Finally, the time came to take the boy to the Chantry for the ceremony and Malcolm was glad to leave the house intact without any incidents.

The baby was quiet and content during the walk, stirring only when they entered the Chantry itself. He turned wide eyes everywhere, cooing at the many new sights. He seemed particularly fascinated by the roof, staring upwards the entire time.

“Your third son?” the Mother asked with a quirk of her lips. He was sure it was meant to be a dig.

“So far,” he said with a grin of his own. “Just the beginning if the wife will allow me.”

The Mother didn’t say anything else, holding her hands out for the baby. Malcolm both dreaded and looked forward to this part. His first son had peed himself and the second had been just marginally better. The baby, for his part, seemed indifferent, babbling to himself, curling close and trying to grab the Mother’s hat.

“Who will this child be?” she asked, looking at Malcolm.

He had the chosen the name a while back, initially planning for it to be Artemis’s but Cormac had taken that decision out of his hand. He just hoped naming his son after a mage wouldn’t end up being some form of sentencing.

“My son will be called Anton, for a dear friend who I remember well,” Malcolm said.

The Mother nodded and held the child up in the column of light, bringing back memories of Cormac and Artemis’s namedays. “Let this child be named in the eyes of the Maker, and may the Maker's light be upon him for all time.”

Malcolm saw a sister scribble down the name and was glad that at least now he could call his son something besides ‘the baby.’ The Mother handed him back his son, thankfully still dry and Malcolm smiled down at the newly named Anton Hawke.

“Thank you, Mother,” he said and then turned to leave. Anton tapped his mouth with a closed fist. “What is it, kid?”

“Shiny,” Anton giggled. Malcolm whirled around when the Mother let out a loud gasp.

“My Medallion of Andraste,” the Mother said, patting her shoulders and neck urgently, “it is gone!”

Malcolm turned a horrified expression onto his child as Anton opened his hand to show the shining silver medallion bearing Andraste’s symbol.

“Maker’s Breath, Anton…” he muttered, taking the medallion from the child, ignoring his whine. “I’m terribly sorry Mother, Anton had it,” he said, handing the medallion over to the woman.

The Mother accepted it warily, looking between him and his son. Malcolm glanced at Anton to see the boy smiling widely, blue eyes wide and looking as innocent as a newborn lamb rather than a two year old who’d just stolen a medallion. But the look was working and the Mother’s frown melted into a smile almost immediately.

“He’s going to be a troublesome one,” she said but the words were tempered with fondness. “Keep an eye on him.”

“I’ll keep both,” Malcolm assured her and hastily beat a retreat before Anton could steal something else.

When they got home, he set the child down on the kitchen table, “You’re going to be trouble in the future, I can tell.”

Anton just smiled and held out his other hand to his father. Malcolm quirked an eyebrow and took it, eyes widening as he felt something metallic slip into his fingers. Anton drew back his hand and Malcolm started with an open mouth at the small pile of silvers in his palm, just enough to fit into a tiny hand.

“Pretty. Shiny,” Anton said, smiling at his father.

Malcolm slowly closed his hand around the silvers. A chuckle escaped him, then several more until he was roaring in laughter and Leandra walked into the room with concern.

“Is everything alright?” she asked, looking between them.

Malcolm nodded, fingers wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. He ruffled Anton’s head and grinned at the child, “You are going to be a troublemaker alright. The best kind.” He looked up at Leandra. “How old does a child have to be before a set of lockpicks become an appropriate gift?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Penbrydd is a desire demon. I tried to stay away from the temptation. I failed.


	4. Carver & Bethany

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even hiding in the Wilds, there are some things you need the Chantry for.

Sothmere was a tiny village, no bigger than Honnleath had been. There was no Chantry, here, and he knew the village's wise woman was an apostate healer, if one less trained than himself. Sometimes, when Malcolm came to town, he stopped in and offered her things he'd learnt in Rivain, or the tower, in exchange for a fistful of herbs or insight into the weather and local plants. She didn't seem that much older than he was, really, but she wore her grandmotherly appearance like a shield against anyone looking too closely at her skills.  
  
Today, she sat at the edge of the town square, binding carefully measured bundles of herbs and setting them into baskets on her other side. "Maalik, what brings you to the village, today?"  
  
"It's good to see you, Auntie Stoyanka!" Malcolm waved and offered her a deep bow, which never failed to make her laugh. "I come with my family. It's time for us to name our children, and I know this is the day the sister from South Reach is due."  
  
"Surely not these children?" Stoyanka asked, gesturing to where Artemis and Cormac were chasing each other around in circles, and then to Anton, who kept trying to pull his hand out of his father's grip. "Aren't they a bit old not to have names?"  
  
"No, no. The little ones. My wife had twins. They're around here, somewhere." Malcolm looked around until he spotted the red scarf Leandra had tied her hair with -- she'd brought the children to where the woodcarver was working outside his house, and the boy was pointing excitedly at some little whittled thing. He pointed toward them with his free hand, and then called for his sons. "Mack! Arthur! Come here and say hello to Auntie Stoyanka!"  
  
"You never bring your family to the village," Stoyanka observed, quietly, as the boys ran up. "I thought it was just because you were Chasind, and you didn't want any _accidents_ to befall your children, but that's not it, is it? These two are like you, aren't they?"  
  
Malcolm purposefully misinterpreted the question, as he rumpled Artemis's hair. "Oh, sure, I've got great hopes they'll grow up handsome just like their old father. Couldn't ask for anything better. Tony, though, he takes after his mother. She's a beautiful woman, of course, and I'm sure he'll be just as handsome, in his way."  
  
Cormac squinted at the old woman. "You're a witch, aren't you?"  
  
Stoyanka laughed as Malcolm sputtered. "Mack! You can't just say that to people! What if the templars hear you?"  
  
"Witches aren't bad. There's witches in our village and they're very nice. And the templars don't come there, because there's no templars in the Chasind lands." Cormac smiled and held out his hand, his fingers flashing blue as he caught the healing spell Stoyanka flicked at him.  
  
"Some witches are very nice, indeed. Maybe you'll grow up and marry one some day. You're going to be very strong, you know that? I can see it in you. Just like your father." Stoyanka smiled and handed Cormac a small bundle of herbs. "But, I'm just an old woman who makes things out of plants. Some people think I'm a witch, but nobody's ever proved it."  
  
"Do you know what that is?" Malcolm asked, pointing to the herbs in Cormac's hand.  
  
"Elfroot and... I don't know." Cormac looked up, expectantly.  
  
"Embrium. It's for a healing potion," Malcolm explained, pointing out the features of the flower as Stoyanka turned her eye to Artemis.  
  
"And you? There's a great power in you, as well." As she recognised just how great that power would be, her eyes darted up to Malcolm, who squeezed his eyes shut and smiled tensely. "What do _you_ think of witches?" Her fingers twitched and a small healing spell drifted in his direction.  
  
Artemis inched back, stopping halfway behind Cormac. He didn't say a word, just shrugged absently, his eyes never leaving the old woman.  
  
"Ah, you're not so sure of it as your brother, are you? Well, you're young. It's all right to still be afraid." Stoyanka offered a very different bundle of herbs, and Artemis hesitantly accepted it.  
  
"Heatherum and foxite." Artemis knew those right away. "And..." He turned the bundle in his hands to get a better look. "I don't know what that is, but whatever it is, you want it to do what it does, but better."  
  
Malcolm crouched down, and Anton took advantage of the extra few inches his father's arm would move. "I don't know either, but it feels... enchanted?"  
  
Stoyanka huffed at Malcolm. "You live with the Chasind and you don't know?"  
  
"I did my study elsewhere!" Malcolm protested.  
  
"Did you study spirit shards? Because the Chasind don't take stones," Stoyanka hinted, and Malcolm's eyes widened.  
  
"Trees! You cut the tree that grows over the lyrium and use that!" He chuckled and shook his head. "I wouldn't have thought to try it."  
  
"There's some old lyrium mines from before the Blights, to the west. It comes almost up to the surface in a few places," Stoyanka went on. "But, the rocks don't grow back, and they make the body strange. The trees will almost always grow back, and there's just enough in them that you can put a little something on top."  
  
"So, kiddo, do you know what it's for?" Malcolm asked, knowing that for whatever reason, Artemis took more naturally to plants than his brother, even if he couldn't seem to manage to make the potions.  
  
Artemis just looked baffled.  
  
"Your brother is strong in spirit, and this will protect you, the next time you fight with him. It won't save you from all of it, but it'll take the worst off. I know how boys get, at your age." Stoyanka laughed and smiled.  
  
"Boys," Malcolm scoffed. "You should see my daughter. Barely two and just as bad."  
  
Artemis looked up from the herbs in his hand. "Is that why you gave him a healing potion?"  
  
"Eventually, you'll hit him a good one, and he'll need it." Stoyanka winked and turned her attention to Anton, still trying to twist himself around in a way that would make Malcolm let go. "And you, young man! you'll be a world of trouble, won't you? All made of eyes and hands, aren't you? What do you think of witches?"  
  
"Magic doesn't make you specialer than anybody else," Anton recited, standing up straighter. "That's what my da says."  
  
"Smart man, your da." Stoyanka nodded solemnly. The boy would be a heartbreaker, one day. She glanced at Malcolm as she reached into her basket for another bundle. "Your wife from one of the northern villages?"  
  
Malcolm nodded. He knew what she meant -- the northern tribes were a lot lighter than the Chasind, which most people assumed he was, and Anton took more after his mother's colouring. Still, Leandra was from far further north than that. "We were married in Highever, before we decided to come south. Just working our way through Ferelden a little at a time."  
  
"It's a good way to meet people," Stoyanka agreed, holding out a bundle to Anton, who had slipped it up his sleeve before she'd even realised it had left her fingers. "You're quick, aren't you! Maybe you won't need that, after all, but I think one day, it will serve you well."  
  
Anton smiled rakishly, a ridiculous look on a child his age. "I thank you, Auntie Witch-Lady."  
  
"Ooh! Watch out for him!" Stoyanka chuckled and smiled at Malcolm.  
  
"Every day," Malcolm sighed.  
  
A bit of shouting rose up at the edge of town, and the sheriff stepped into the square, declaring that the travelling sister would be where he stood, in a matter of moments. Those who had business with the Chantry made their way to the front, not in a line, but in rows, knowing she'd pick an end and work her way through. Leandra filtered into the group, the boy to one side and the girl to the other. Barely a moment passed, before Leandra was moved forward, along with two other young mothers, and one of the older women nudging her toward the front noted that it was best to get the children done first, so they'd be out of the way before things got boring.  
  
The sister looked young, as she approached, but a hardness around her eyes suggested she might have been on this route for quite some time. Her eyes landed on a man in the middle of the crowd. "Vernon! What did I tell you last time?" Her voice cut through the chatter, and people slowly stopped talking.  
  
"I know, Sister, but it's not about that!" the man complained.  
  
"End of the line, Vernon. Let me get your neighbours settled, first." The sister's voice was patient, even as her lips tightened in grim determination. As Vernon made his way to the back, the sister spoke again. "Who comes before me for the Maker's blessing?"  
  
"I do, Sister." Leandra stepped forward, leading her children. "I bring my children to be blessed with names."  
  
"You're not from Sothmere, are you? I don't know your name." The sister looked surprised to find someone unexpected, this far out.  
  
"No, Sister, but my family lives nearby. We came south for the ryott." Leandra named the grain most of the farms in the area grew.  
  
"And your name?" The sister asked.  
  
"Lee Merlin," Leandra answered, nudging the boy forward.  
  
"Welcome to Sothmere, Lee. May the Maker watch over you and may your harvests be full." The sister smiled, and then reached for the boy. "And what will this boy be called?"  
  
"Carver," Leandra replied, as the sister swept her son into the air.  
  
Carver kicked his feet gleefully, landing a solid one against the sister's nose. The crowd gasped and muttered among themselves and someone pressed a bundle of elfroot leaves into Leandra's hand.  
  
"Let this child be named in the eyes of the Maker, and may the Maker's light be upon him for all time," the sister intoned, nasally, blood dribbling from one nostril, as she held him up toward the sun. "From a child of the Maker comes another child. Let this one be known as Carver, son of Lee Merlin." As she set the boy down, she muttered, "Might well have called him Kicker!"  
  
Leandra offered the elfroot, taking Carver's hand again, as the sister packed her nose. "I'm very sorry," she murmured. "Carver, tell the sister you're sorry for kicking her in the face."  
  
"I didn't! She put her face where my foot was!" Carver folded his free arm across his chest.  
  
"The boy has a point," the sister admitted. "It's certainly not the first time."  
  
"He should still apologise," Leandra said, firmly.  
  
"I'm sorry you put your face where my foot was," Carver huffed.  
  
The sister pointedly raised an eyebrow at Carver, before she returned her attention to Leandra. "The girl as well?"  
  
"She will be Bethany," Leandra replied, nudging her daughter forward.  
  
The sister lifted the girl far more gently, expecting to be kicked again -- with twins, the first often set the tone for the second. But, the little girl was still and silent, her blue eyes uncanny as she watched the sister's face. "Let this child be named in the eyes of the Maker, and may the Maker's light be upon her for all time," the sister intoned, a chill running down her spine, as she held the girl up toward the sun and felt the Maker's judgement upon her. "From a child of the Maker comes another child. Let this one be known as Bethany, daughter of Lee Merlin."  
  
She set Bethany down as swiftly as could be polite. "Something about her," she said to Leandra. "She'll have a future in the Chantry one day, with those eyes."  
  
"This little troublemaker?" Leandra laughed. "I can only hope."  
  
Still smiling, Leandra led her children away from the sister and those who gathered to hear her advice. She would find her husband and sons, and then they could leave this place and the eyes of the Chantry behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next Rhapsody Fan Chat is on Saturday, 20 May 2017 @ 17:00 EDT. ([What time is that?](https://www.timeanddate.com/worldclock/fixedtime.html?msg=Rhapsody+Fan+Chat+\(May+2017\)&iso=20170520T17&p1=179&ah=4)) Watch [Pen's Tumblr](https://penbrydd.tumblr.com/) for the link to join us, when the time comes.
> 
> Stoyanka and the village of Sothmere are canonical, and both appear in the tabletop adventure 'Amber Rage', in the 'Blood in Ferelden' collection.


End file.
